RENT) Anthony Rapp FanFic
by FieryRogue
Summary: Ch 4 up now. Short/Sweet. Probably will be filled out more, but I wanted to post something for you guys. PG-13. Language.
1. An adventure in itself...

So, uh, what do I say? This is my Anthony Rapp fan fic. I didn't know where to put it, so I put it under where all the RENT stuff is. I figured it'd be found by those interested. I have this bizarre feeling that it's going to end up mega long, so this is just the beginning. I'll also assume everyone reads part 1 first so I won't bother messing up the tops of the documents like I am right now unless it's necessary. Uhm, I had something all planned out to say, but now I forgot. Damn. This is the first fan fic I've posted, so please, be kind. *grin* Anyway, on with the show...  
  
Oh wait, any mention of RENT, or RENT characters... those are Jon Larson's. I'm sure you knew that. And my respects to Anthony Rapp...  
  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
**Part 1**  
  
To tell you the truth, I've never really met anyone in the least bit famous.  
  
Maybe the time I was with a friend at a Christian rock festival back in the day when I was a psychotic teenybopper type religious freak. Yes, Audio Adrenaline and Eric Champion. I met them, but no one that I was so inspired by, no one I was so excited and honored at the slightest chance of meeting.  
  
And here I was now, navigating the gridded streets of Portland. Rain swept down from the darkening sky. My busy little windshield wipers whisked the sheets of water to either side.  
  
I think I retraced the same path five or six times as I always do when I come to Portland. Damn me for living in a small town! Although I think the nerves that affect me when I'm driving in Portland aren't the kind you get when you think you're going to get lost, or are overwhelmed by all the traffic and other big city fears. No, I get more nervous because I'm afraid I'll be late. For a play, a concert, a comedy show. Whatever I may be doing. Must be punctual. Must get good seats.  
  
I finally find a street parking space (Bonus! It's after six pm, no charges!) which is lucky. Usually I have to pay to park in a lot. Which isn't so bad either, really. I'm about three blocks from the club. The club where he will be making a rather small CD promotion appearance. For as much as he is known, he is also not known. Not known enough to have big time investment types promoting a tour or advertising his music. A small setting. Personal. I'd rather it be this way really. He speaks too. He speaks to colleges and I imagine his music audiences about himself, acting, theater and GLBT * issues. Because all those things are important to him. He wants to support and inform people.  
  
Precariously, I open my car door and try to haul my backpack out of the backseat before I'm hit by an oncoming slew of taxis. Barely successful, I dash for the sidewalk as I sling my jacket around my shoulders and pull the hood up about my head. I weave in and out of other pedestrians as I try to quickly make it to the venue.  
  
I round the last corner and join a small group entering through the tight doors under a barely noticeable sign with lights and "Tonight: Anthony Rapp" spelled out. Actually the 'h' in Anthony and the first 'p' in Rapp are missing.  
  
I squeeze in, just in time to snag a small table in the back with only one chair. It looks like the other chairs have been snagged by other table dwellers. Wild, I got my own table. I think about how much my best friend would have loved to be here. But he's only 20, not quite old enough to go to this club. I myself am barely old enough.  
  
A waitress asks if I would like anything. I tell her just a glass of wine will suffice. She smiles sweetly and takes off, her tight golden curls bobbing down a cascade of ponytail.  
She returns just in time for the lights to go down and Anthony makes his way onto the stage.  
  
"He's really... beautiful," she says.  
  
I can't help but grin madly. "I know. He's just... beautiful."  
  
"He was in that show - Rent - wasn't he?" she says not looking at me because we are both watching him settle himself as the audience responded in various ways of seeing him appear - claps, chatter, whistles... cat calls from a couple of queens near the front? I chuckle to myself.  
  
"Yes," I answer the waitress. "He originated the role of Mark in that show in the original run on Broadway."  
  
"Two dollars."  
  
"What?" I say looking at her abruptly. "Oh! For the drink. Sorry." I hand her two rather crumpled dollar bills. I manage to scrounge another dollar so she can have a tip.  
  
"Thanks, darlin'" she replies smiling brightly again. "Enjoy the show."  
  
"I'm sure I will," I think to myself as she wanders off again.  
  
Anthony adjusts the stool they're provided him with. The microphone squeals with feedback as he alters the height and position. He clears his throat.  
  
"Uh, hello," he says kind of nervously. Or perhaps that's just casualty I hear in his voice? "I uh, am enjoying Portland. Granted, it's rainy, but I like the city. All the museums and theaters... It's very... bohemian."  
  
He pauses for laughter. I think I was the only one who really laughed out loud. He glances up in my direction and I know he sees me. I instantly blush. He smiles.  
  
"So, uh, this song I'm gonna sing now, I've just written, so it's not on the album."  
  
He begins to play and as soon as that voice sings the first notes, I fall in love all over again. His bleach blond hair is rather wild and a bit of moisture gleams from his soft lips.  
  
All too soon, the performance is over and I'm snapped back to reality land.  
  
"Okay, I hope everyone had a good time," Anthony says. "My little performance is over, but I'll be milling about so feel free to come and talk to me or whatever. Thank you again."  
  
He clicks off the mike.  
  
Some people hang around, and still others opt to leave. Most of the ones who stay are just hanging around like they would any other night. My guess is the majority of them don't realize all the things he's ever done in theater, music and movies. That's okay. More   
opportunity for me.  
  
Me! Yes! I fumble around for my backpack under the table. I at the very least have to get my friend's RENT album signed, because I promised I would. I fish around and retrieve that and my own RENT album and my copy of Anthony's solo album. I clutch them in my hands for dear life.  
  
Seeing that he was only currently talking to one person, I felt I had my chance. I scurried across the smoky room and stopped short about five feet from him. I didn't feel I should intrude on his conversation.  
  
I stood there for probably ten minutes. It seemed like ten hours. And I knew I looked like a geek with all those albums in my hands. In fact, as soon as the tall red-headed girl got up from Anthony's table, I fumbled with them and almost sent them all crashing to the floor when he looked up at me and said, "Well, hello there" as if he'd known me for ages.  
  



	2. 867-5309

**Part 2**  
  
Somehow I managed to walk that five feet to the table and gracefully settle myself in the chair. I poured the contents of my arms in front of him. They made a loud clattering sound and I found myself looking about to see how many people were staring at me. No one was.  
  
His face transformed into a wide grin and he let out a gentle laugh, saying, "So, you're a big RENT fan, eh?"  
  
"I, uh -- that's my -- I'm... my friend..." My God, I was blubbering.  
  
His eyes twinkled with amusement. "Hey, relax, okay? Breathe... Breeeaaathheee..."  
  
So of course I laughed at that, which was good, it loosened me up a bit. I realized I wasn't looking him in the face very much. I tried to focus. Deep breath.  
  
"Um, Anthony, I... I hope I don't look like a blathering teenybopper, I'm really more... sophisticated than that. So to speak. I mean, not sophisticated, but intelligent. Wait, maybe I do mean soph-"  
  
"You're blathering." he said.  
  
"Oh no!" I buried my face into my arms on the table. I wished I would just die right there.  
  
I no sooner did that than I felt a gentle tap on my shoulder. "Hello?" came Anthony's sweet tender voice. "I was joking."  
  
I looked up at him. I think I would have cried if I weren't in such a state of disbelief..  
  
"One of those is my friend's albums. He couldn't come. He's not old enough to come to clubs. I was hoping, if it didn't seem too juvenile, that you would sign my albums."  
  
"No problem. Hey, I noticed you right off when I came in. You laughed at my bohemian joke," he said opening up one of the CD covers.  
  
"You were looking at me!" I said. "I imagined you were. But I wasn't sure."  
  
"No one got the reference. I wonder if anyone in here has even heard of RENT," he laughed.  
  
"Perhaps not," I said. "And maybe the others figured you were sick of being associated with the show. You know, like, for example, Tim Curry appreciates all the Rocky Horror fans, but he's so moved on and he's said that. Maybe they think you don't want to be connected to one character for the rest of your life."  
  
"Well, normally, I think any actor feels that way. Sure, they recognize that it's the role that got them going, but they want to move forward now. To the next step." He paused and looked down and his hands, playing with the cap of his pen. "But in the case of RENT, Mark was someone who meant so much more to me. The show meant so much more to me... Jonathan meant so much to all of us."  
  
For a brief second I thought he was going to cry. "Jonathan," I said. "I've had my suspicions he was just like Mark. Would you say he was?"  
  
At first I thought this was the wrong thing to say, pursuing the subject of RENT's fabulous, but deceased, writer Jonathan Larson. He seemed to stare through me. But alas, he finally said, "Yes, he was. He was in every character. But he was mostly like Mark."  
  
He smiled again. "You know what else I noticed about you?" he said changing the subject, which I was partially thankful for. "Your glasses. Look at those! Those are Mark Cohen glasses! That's why I smiled after I caught your eye. I was amused by those. Can I see them?"  
  
Not even thinking that this was at all bizarre, I slid them off my nose and handed them over.  
  
"They're exactly like the ones I had for Mark!" he proclaimed. He then... put... them... on.  
  
I thought I was going to die. Again.  
  
"Ahhh! You're Mark Cohen! I'm talking to Mark Cohen!" We both laughed. "Sorry, I don't have a striped scarf." He laughed uncontrollably at that.  
  
"You know, I hated that damn thing. And that jacket. Sure they looked good, but damn it was hot. Stage lights suck."  
  
"Yeah, I know," I replied. "I've been in a few shows. One show I was wearing a wool skirt and too much make-up. I blame both of those problems on the same person, but damn, it was hot!"  
  
We were both rolling now. To think, I was sharing theater stories with someone who had been on Broadway. It seemed silly for me to be talking about my small town high school shows.  
  
He took off the glasses and handed them back to me.  
  
"I like you. You're different than all the weirdoes that approach me at these things. I mean, I love my fans, and I love being at this small scale level where I can be more personal with my fans, but jeez, you should see them line up to see me! Sheesh, you'd think I was Tom Cruise or something." At least I think that's what he said. I got caught up at "I like you."  
  
"This is probably totally wrong of me to do," he said. "If my publicist finds out, she'll murder me. But..."  
  
I'd like to speculate what he was about to say, but I couldn't.  
  
"I don't get to hang out with people much. After tonight I'm going to Seattle and then Vancouver, B.C. But after that I'm done for a bit," he looked serious but kind still. "If I come back down to Portland will you show me around? Someone told me it was a really fabulous city full of art and atmosphere."  
  
My jaw dropped. In fact, it may have fell off completely. I didn't even stammer. Well, because I couldn't make a sound of any kind.  
  
"Hello?" he said waving his hand in front of my face. "Yes, I really said that. You're not dreaming. Or is it a problem? It's okay if it is, I understand."  
  
"NO!" I said a little too forcefully. "I mean, I'd be totally and completely honored and indebted to you for the rest of my life if I could do that."  
  
That huge friendly grin returned to fill his face. "Then it's a date. I have to get your number though because I'd be definitely terminated if I gave that out. I don't think I know it anyway." More chuckles.  
  
I grabbed a cocktail napkin with a soda glass ring on it. I scribbled down my number for him.  
  
"Thanks, sweetheart. I promise I'll call and we'll hang out, okay?" He stuffed the napkin into his wallet.  



	3. One bohemian to another.

**Part 3**  
  
Anthony cupped my hands in his and said, "Now, I've got to be off, I've stayed about a half hour longer than I should have. I'm gonna get heat for that. I'm pretty well looked after in case you couldn't tell."  
  
A half hour? I had been talking to him for about a half hour. He should have left before I even spoke one word to him. But... he didn't.  
  
I stood up as he did to leave. He gave me a hug and pecked me on the cheek. I resisted the temptation to touch my face where he had kissed me.  
  
"So, I'll talk to you later, eh?" He said turning to leave. "Oh, and uh," he glanced back at me, "don't forget your albums. Your friend will kill you."  
  
I had totally forgotten, to tell the truth. I tried to busy myself picking them up and setting them straight so he wouldn't think and/or notice that I was gazing as he wandered off. I looked up to say goodbye, but he had already vanished.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
To say I was excited was the biggest understatement in all of eternity. I tried to be low key, but I admit that every time my phone rang I pounced on it and tackled it to the ground. My heart dropped whenever it would just be my mother or something.  
  
Two agonizing weeks went by. He said only two other cities, right? Seattle then Vancouver? And then he was done? He did say he was going to get in contact with me again, right? I did give him my number, didn't I? Did I give him the right number though? I closed my eyes and tried to envision the soda-stained napkin that I'd scribbled the info onto. For as much as I strained the deepest fathoms of my brain, I couldn't focus on what I had written. Damn it, I probably wrote the wrong numbers. Or it was illegible and he couldn't read it. He lost it. He didn't care. He forgot about me. He was abducted by aliens...  
  
Perhaps he was teasing me for his own entertainment. What a sick prank! No, I told myself, Anthony Rapp wasn't like that.  
  
Maybe I had dreamed up the whole thing. Perhaps I'd made it all up, as if I were writing some fanatical Anthony Rapp fan fiction.  
  
Naaahhh.  
  
It was real. And I know it was because although I don't remember fighting the traffic home, downing a dozen green apple sodas at The Roxy, or almost running over a queen crossing the street, I distinctly remember someone back at the club breaking my daze by saying, "He's gay you know."  
  
"What?" I blinked.  
  
"He's gay. I can tell you're infatuated with him, but come on, even if you do ever see him again, he's gay, you're not gonna get him. Get over it." I don't think he realized that Anthony had actually said he would see me again, as our conversation had been pretty private and secluded in a dark corner of the room.  
  
I vaguely remember setting this person straight by hurling an assault of Anthony facts that I knew, including that he was gay, at him. Turns out I knew a million times more than he did. Jerk.  
  
Although, I had to admit, for as much as I admired him, his work, his music, his personality; I did find myself very... attracted... to him. There were actually a few other gay boys I'd had quite a likening for in the past, so it wasn't too terribly surprising.  
  
Talk about a psychiatric torture on yourself. Loving someone you for sure could never have. Ever.  
  
The day the call came though, I was reassured that I was not dreaming at all. It was very real. I had settled down on my mad phone answering skills, and to tell the truth, I almost missed the call. I was in the laundry room, starting the dryer. With all the noise I only heard the phone ring it's last ring before the answering machine caught it. I strolled into my living room, anticipating the voice of one of my friends, or a salesperson or something.  
  
Beeep.  
  
"Uh, hello? Bobbie? I'm sorry that I missed you. This is Anth-"  
  
I about hung up on him trying to pick up the phone and turn off the machine at the same time.  
  
"Hello? Hello?" I breathed into the phone, hoping he hadn't hung up. There was a moment of silence that seemed like the whole of eternity to me. Finally he spoke.  
  
"Well hey girl," he chuckled. "I suppose you thought I abandoned you or something. There was this whole GLAAD thing I got involved with in Seattle and I - how are you?"  
  
"Absolutely ecstatic," I said. What the hell was I thinking? Why did I say that? "Er, I mean, I'm good, you know, getting along..."  
  
"Fabulous. So, I'm here at this hotel in Portland. It's actually pretty fancy. I dunno, they find these places for me... What are you up to right now?"  
  
I wanted to make up some fabulously entertaining story full of glitz and glam and impressive activity. But...  
  
"Folding laundry," I sighed.  
  
For some reason beyond my comprehension, he found this amusing.  
  
"So, when do you work? I mean, I'm pretty free twenty-four hours a day for awhile here," he offered.  
  
"All the time."  
  
"What?"  
  
"I work all the time," I repeated. "I'm actually pretty bohemian, in the sense that, I can't afford to pay my rent hardly because instead of working in a steady normal job, I insist on torturing myself to do art."  
  
"Oh yeah? That's good though. You're doing what you want."  
  
"Yeah, I write articles for children's magazines, hack away at screenplays and theater scripts, audition for an acting role every now and again, take photographs, work for the Teen Theater Group every now and then when they need extra help, try and sell any of the above at Saturday Market... basically I do whatever someone will pay me to do and involves my interests."  
  
"So you're telling me you're free then?" he pressed. Somehow I knew he was grinning ear-to-ear trying not to burst into hysterics.  
  
"Yeah, that's pretty much it," I laughed. He gave me the address of where he was and I gripped it in my hands, careful not to lose and/or destroy it. I tried to keep it crisp even.  
  
"So, I'll see you in a bit?" he asked.  
  
"Yeah, I'll be right over." We said our goodbyes and it wasn't until I heard the buzz of the dial tone that I hung up.  
  
I stared at the phone for about two seconds before I jumped into action, collecting up my keys, jacket and rushing out the door.  



	4. Anthony's Unmentionables

I've taken consideration of all the comments so far and have decided this most likely won't be romantic. I'd considered it for awhile, but thought better of it and everyone's comments helped me make the right decision. This is a bit short and sweet and probably needs more filler, but I wanted to post the next part before you all thought I was dead or something. LOL. If I update it I'll of course make a note of it in the summary. :)  
  
**************************  
  
Part 4  
  
*******  
  
Rain sloshed across my boots as I approached the entrance to Anthony's hotel. There was a doorman standing outside in a beautiful black tailored uniform and a hat with gold edging. I checked in with him and was allowed up to Anthony's room.  
  
The hallways were fairly empty on Anthony's floor, which was good I suspected. Wonderful pieces of art hung on the walls all along the hall and I caught myself stopping to admire many of them on my way down to his room.  
  
When I finally tore myself from the last painting, I rapped sharply on Anthony's door. He was ready and waiting for me because he answered the door within seconds.  
  
"Sorry," he said, "I've been anxious to get out of here. I hate hotels. You wanna come in for a minute or just head out?"  
  
The temptation to go in on the slight chance that I might see his boxers laying about kept me from answering for a moment.  
  
"No, that's okay," I said, amused by my own thoughts. I could feel a smirk spread across my face.  
  
"Gonna let me in on the joke?" Anthony asked. Obviously he caught my grin. "Toying with the idea of snooping around in the bathroom or something?"  
  
I about spat I laughed so hard.  
  
Anthony laughed as well. "That's it then?"  
  
Trying to control my outrageous giggles I managed to get out, "Well, you're in the ballpark."  
  
Anthony took this to be a challenge of some sort and turned it into a game.  
  
"Hmm, what could it be? What's Anthony's personal lifestyle like? Is he messy? Does he eat red meat? What kind of pornos does he watch? Does he read romance novels? Does he wear boxers or briefs?..."  
  
Now I was in such a state of hilarity I had to brace myself against the door. I think there were brief moments when I stopped breathing and the electrodes in my brain stopped sparking.  
  
He was mildly amused as well. The biggest grin I had ever seen was spread across his face. "My God, girl, breathe. You're going to kill yourself." He chuckled, crossing his arms in front of him.  
  
"I think we should go," I said taking deep breaths, a giggle escaping every few seconds.  
  
"You sure you don't want to snoop around for empty liquor bottles or hookers under the bed?"  
  
"Stop it!" I wheezed. "My abdomen hurts from laughing so much! Come on!" I grabbed him by the wrist and he was barely able to close the door as I quickly whisked him away, the both of us cackling hysterically along the way.  
  
******************  
  
More to come... 


End file.
